


The Mansion Run

by Jabyrwock



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-16 03:59:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2255061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jabyrwock/pseuds/Jabyrwock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years have passed since the explosion at Felt Mansion, and Midnight City is at war with itself. With the Midnight Crew dead, unending turf wars have broken out between countless gangs. Karkat Vantas started Mobius to get answers, not to become entangled in the city's cloak-and-dagger politics, but how far will he have to go to find out what really happened that night - the night of the Mansion Run?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Self-Employed Handmaid

“You, Ms. Megido, have given us a lot of trouble.”

Megido. Ancient city-state located near the shore of the Mediterranean. Prophesied to be the location of the final battle and the end of mankind. An okay name, I suppose. I wonder where they got it.

“Eight of our best, dead. You’re practically a one man army.”

The mistake isn't surprising. This gang seems to be all-male. (Could be an advantage; they may underestimate me.) I wait for the correction to come. I seem to do a lot of waiting these days. It can be kind of boring, actually. But that's okay. There's a faint itch by the side of my leg that I can't quite reach. As it is currently the most interesting thing happening to me, it occupies most of my attention.

“–woman, of course. Regardless, it's quite impressive.”

It’s not. They were always going to die.

“You don’t seem scared, Ms. Megido.”

They aren’t giving me much reason to be. Slate-gray suits. Jade frog pins on every lapel. The room we're in, with its thick doors and plaster support columns, is either part of an abandoned warehouse or just supposed to look the part. The only touch of color is a brown cardboard box on the floor that holds my phone. There's a clock on a wall, but it's as monochrome as everything else. 23:59:34. That will come in handy.

I stifle a yawn. In the few weeks I have known them, the Anura gang has climbed hitherto-unseen rungs on its Echeladder of Dreariness. The leader – the one monologuing, the one holding the gun at me – is squat and rubbery. Inefficient. The three others behind him are far more muscular, but they aren’t paying attention. Why should they? My hands are chained behind me by digitally-locked cuffs, impossible to pick. Not that it matters. Though my back does ache slightly from the angle. Amateurs. They're as sad and characterless as decaying statues, and about as frightening.

“You should be.” Scared, he means. He's clearly loving this. Good for him. Even he, even this tedious insignificant man getting in my way with his tedious insignificant gang, deserves to have a little fun before he dies.

Soon, now.

“Tell us who your employer is.”

A flicker of motion from the corner of my eye. Hour, minute, second, millisecond. Every hand of the clock lines up. 00:00:00. Origin.

I speak. “Ask her yourself.”

Now.

“What do y-”

His nose crunches under her fist. Blood splashes across her hand and onto the floor. It matches the red accents zig-zagging down the front of her black outfit. Abruptly she is falling, catching his wrist as she moves to pull him down in front of her as a shield. The others fire shots that strike the plaster above their heads. The next few rip through his chest. She throws him to the ground and uses the push to get back on her feet, deftly catching the gun as he drops it. Once, twice. Their attempted dodges carry them directly into the path of her bullets. A few more notes of color are added to the room. Steel to rust. The third is close enough to punch her, but she spins and it flies past. She seizes his arm and elbows him in the face.

The movements are mechanical in their precision. I concentrate on memorizing them in perfect detail. I watch my employer lift her opponent's arm up and twirl beneath it, throwing him off balance as her leg finishes the spin and catches him squarely in the jaw. He collapses. The third bullet smashes straight through his skull. A few quick steps return her to the short one. She withdraws something – a metal strip – from one of his inner pockets. She taps it against my chains and they snap open, freeing me to stand and stretch my back. We do not exchange any words. A moment later she has left, pausing briefly to pick up her phone from the box on the floor.

00:00:30. Only half a minute has passed. That sort of time can be lost when you close your eyes for a moment or contemplate the weather. Negligible. Salami slicing. But I must move quickly; I cannot afford to steal much more than this. Eyes closed; inhale; I am a cog in a clock. I turn as the gears determine. Unnoticeable. Feel for the pulse, the tick... reach out... and hold -

The universe implodes.

Origin.

"What do y-"

 _Crunch._  

Blood splashes over my hand but I barely notice it. This exhilaration is the one thing that makes me feel alive. The knowledge that my every movement is perfect. In these few stolen moments of destruction, I am invulnerable. I am inevitable. I am a blade in the hand of Time itself, transcending cause and effect, reason and choice. I have only one fear: that someday I will balk at a command. That fear guarantees my loyalty more than any bribe could ever do. I have already killed my only friend just because I told myself I would. I’m still not sure why I did it, really.

The fight's over as quickly as it started. The high is already starting to wear off, but I’ve got a deadline to meet. The key will be in – I scan my memory briefly – the second pocket from the right. I retrieve it and tap it briefly against my employee's chains. They snap open. I don’t pay her any attention. I just grab my phone from the box, take a deep breathe to recenter, and head out the door.

Here is one of the less boring facts: photons move so quickly that the entirety of the universe passes for them in an instant. Your birth, your death; the beginning and end of humanity; the Big Bang and whatever ends it all. A blink and it has passed. For them, the apocalypse is already here. This may be why my limited abilities - which can barely move me back thirty seconds, let alone something else - can send the photonic waves of my message several hours into the past. It is both a command and a report. I only send them after I have completed my missions, which means every order I get is also a guarantee of success. Temporal loops and causal inevitability have become the backbone of my existence. I live because I live; they die because they die. Addiction is a powerful thing.

23:50  
temple st.  
captured  
jade  
4

The message is sent into the past, and a new one arrives simultaneously from the future. Theoretically, if one were able to trace the electromagnetic path, these pairs of past-and-future messages would create an unbroken link from the beginning of my career to its end. Of course, it would be ridiculous for anyone to be able to do something like that and the possibility will certainly not turn out to be important in any way. In the meantime I have a new assignment.

00:43  
occam’s cafe  
mobius  
gray hat  
1

The air of Midnight City at midnight, in addition to being redundant, is also piercingly cold. The pinprick lights of skyscrapers in better-to-do squares of town feel impossibly distant from the road I walk through, hollow and dark. The surrounding streets are empty. A freezing wind skims the voids keeping buildings apart, as if grazing the hollow of a cut reed, or, say, an abandoned warehouse. A familiar note is produced. It’s the one my phone plays to inform me that I have received a message.

I do not experience curiosity any more, but an echo of it stirs in me as I notice the alert. The number, for the first time in half a year, is not mine, and the timestamp announces it comes from the present. Uncertainty approaches like an old friend who grew a beard since the last time you saw them. I open the message.

WE NEED TO TALK.

i pr0bably d0n't care

Almost four and a quarter minutes pass before I receive a reply. I discover, as I have not done in a while, that I was mistaken.

IT'S ABOUT THE MANSION RUN.

My gut wrenches for an instant. That's okay. Around you, right now, huge quantities of matter and energy are coming into existence and then canceling themselves out, lasting for only a single instant. No one cares what happens in that short a span of time. I certainly don't care about the reaction I had to those words. I don't care about anything, really.

I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.

g0 0n

NO. MEET ME AT OCCAM'S CAFE, FIFTH AND BISHOP.

0kay

AND STOP USING QUIRKS. YOU'RE NOT A WRIGGLER SLURPING NUTRITIONALLY SUSPECT GRUBMILK OUT OF A PLASTIC BAG ANYMORE, LEARN TO TALK LIKE AN ADULT.

y0u mean like y0u d0 with y0ur capitalized words?

FUCK YOU, MY SHIFT KEY IS BROKEN. SERIOUSLY, YOU NEED TO STOP WITH THE ZEROES.

0kay

y0u are n0t very g00d at insults

LOOK. JUST. SHOW UP, 0KAY?

HOLY SHIT. *OKAY. FIFTH AND BISHOP. HALF AN HOUR. WE'LL TALK THERE

It's definitely going to be a long night.


	2. Signs and Suffering

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are dreaming.

In real life, Felt Mansion had been lit by moonlight. Your memories are of pale corridors and silvery shadows. In the dream, the walls themselves glow, filling the hallways with harsh green light. It washes out the red of the spade symbol on your shirt and makes your skin look gray. The same is true for your companions. In fact, they almost look black.

“Smash any clocks you see,” Slick growls. His hand hasn’t left the cane at his side since you entered the mansion. He’s at the front of the group, naturally. _Which is why you’ll die first_ , you try to tell him, but you can’t.

“Why?” asks Droog. He’s wearing one of his apparently infinite finely-tailored suits. “Place is stuffed with them. There’s probably a thousand.”

“Cause if you can see them, they might see you,” Slick says. “Surveillance equipment.” He turns to Droog, narrowing his eyebrows. “Or maybe I just don’t like ’em. I got no time for my orders being questioned, all right?”

“Tick, tick,” mutters Deuce, probably because he thinks it’s funny.

“I said,” growls Slick, “all right?”

Droog nods assent.

You’ve dreamed this more times than you can count. Sometimes you get lucky and the dream starts later, but it always ends the same way. Each time you try to warn them, but you never can; the dream doesn’t allow it. All you can do is watch, silently, as fate unfolds. Tonight is the night that the Midnight Crew – the only family you have ever known – meets its end.

“What’s that?” Boxcars is tilting his head to one side and staring at one of the doors.

“A door.” Slick is losing his patience. “It’s green. That’s all this manor has, is green doors and green walls and clocks.” Except this didn’t happen. You’ve never dreamed this part before. Something isn’t right. You feel uneasy.

“No,” says Boxcars. “It sounded like a girl.”

The handle turns without anyone touching it. The door slowly glides open. You realize, for the first time, that you can actually control your actions. You move closer, trying to peer through the door. It’s too dark to see anything. Have the walls stopped glowing? You take a few more steps and cross over the threshold–

You wake in a cold sweat.

 

Occam’s Cafe is hardly palatial, but it’s home. The small area upstairs is enough for a bedroom, bathroom, and other necessary amenities. Below it is the cafe itself: an open space located on the sunny corner of Fifth Street and Bishop Avenue, somewhat offset by the menacing black-and-red tile floor. The tables and chairs are arranged organically, which is the fancy way of saying you just sort of put them wherever and said fuck it. There is one counter, currently featuring one John Egbert. More specifically it is featuring his feet, which he has propped up behind the pastry display while reading some sort of graphic novel. You’re technically his boss, so you suppose you should tell him off, but it’s not like anyone will show up this early in the morning. Customers don’t really arrive at Occam’s until midday, and they don’t peak until late at night. This is because customers have common sense and therefore, unlike you, do not wake up at goddamn half past seven.

John notices you as you’re still making your way down the stairs, which suggests the graphic novel isn’t all that good. He waves slightly and grins. Fair enough; it’s what you’re paying him for. He showed up not long after you opened the cafe looking for a place to stay, and it turned out his cheerfulness was exactly what the place needed to attract customers. Since he quickly tired of sleeping in a closet (though it is, just for the record, a really nice closet), he ended up sharing your room. More than a few times you’ve found yourself next to him, his arms around you, trying to provide some small comfort against your dreams. There have been a few kisses. They are not spoken of afterward. You’re not really sure where you stand with John Egbert, and you’re not sure where you want to be.

“Hey Karkat!” he greets. “Um, we’re running low on muffins.” Low on muffins. What a calamity. This is what your life has become, and boy, wouldn’t Slick be proud to see you now. Having reached the end of the staircase, you make your way over to the counter, grab a croissant, and snarf it down in one go. Part of a nutritious breakfast, to be rounded out in short order by any meat you can find and some devastatingly black coffee.

“I’ll let Gamzee know,” you reply, still swallowing down the last crumbs. “Owes us a free order anyway.” Gamzee provides the cafe with most of its baked goods. He’s actually quite talented, and more or less stable as long as that guy with the mohawk is around. There has only been one incident, and you managed to bribe all of the customers involved never to tell anyone. You’re pretty sure they couldn’t remember much anyway. Since then you’ve made John test every batch to ensure there isn’t a repeat of the Cupcake Fiasco.

“Oh, and there’s mail outside,” John adds.

“Wow,” you retort, already heading over to the door to pick up whatever’s been sent to you. “Thank you so much for notifying me, instead of getting the mail yourself like a normal person. Next time if you find the communication too taxing, why don’t you just gurgle apathetically and blow a few spitbubbles, and I’ll figure out what to do on my own?"

John shrugs and picks his comic back up. “I’m too busy sitting here! Do you have any idea what might happen if someone came in while I was outside and there wasn’t anyone here to take their order? Catastrophe. Catastrophe is what.”

“Yeah, civilization would collapse and we’d all put up fucking hammers and sickles in the windows,” you mutter as you pick up your mail. You’re pretty sure it’s entirely spam, but you bring it inside anyway and spread it out on a table. “Hey, one for you.” You pick up the envelope: no return address, but clearly labeled ‘John Egbert.’

John springs up from his chair and pulls the message out of your hand. You’ve developed a theory recently that Hell is always eight o’clock in the morning, and instead of devils it simply has morning people. In short order he rips open the envelope, extracts the letter, unfolds it, and scans it. When he’s done he shrugs and sticks it in a pocket. “Just a tax thing, I think.”

“Careful,” you tell him. "Last thing we need is to get caught up in some wide-eyed greenhorn gang’s idea of a protection racket.”

“I’m not a total idiot,” John protests, against all available evidence. “And we haven’t been bothered by any of those in years. Maybe you should relax a little, Karkat.”

You think, but do not voice out loud, that it’s easy for him to say.

“Hey.” John glances over to you. “Are you planning on having anyone over later?”

Well, hopefully customers, but other than that – “No, why?”

He shrugs. “Just curious.” He seems to have entirely given up on the book, and is twirling an old and somewhat battered hat between two fingers. You would make fun of him for it, but he says it was his dad’s, and that’s not something you can mock. Upstairs, in a chest you never open, is an old and somewhat battered crowbar with a spade engraved on its side.

 

You straighten up a few of the chairs and start washing fruit. This is not a bad life, you reflect. Things are quiet. You haven’t gotten tangled up in anything for a long time, which is no small feat in Midnight City. You operate your little cafe, you make basically enough to support yourself and John, and you’ve got friends. Well, you’ve got John, and Sollux when he’s not being an asshole, and Gamzee even if the guy’s more of a business acquaintance and sometimes gives you the creeps.

You wonder if at some point you’ll start to be happy.

Your phone vibrates. That’s odd. Barely anyone knows your handle.

The text itself is even weirder. It was forwarded from somewhere else, but you’re pretty sure there’s been a glitch; the timestamp says it was sent tomorrow at one in the morning, and the handle is your own. Is this one of Sollux's pranks? You immediately regret the thought. Every time you watch a horror movie, you vow to yourself (and John, if he's listening) that if you end up in a bizarre situation, you won't be the one to go "Hey, Jim, this is a joke, right? Knock it off." Those sorts of characters are the absolute worst. And here you are. You decide to just read the message.

RIGHT. LISTEN UP, YOU UNSPEAKABLY SELF-SABOTAGING SHITBRAIN. YOU COULD MOPE AROUND THIS PLACE FOREVER AND DIE A WITHERED, BITTER HUSK OR YOU COULD ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING.

What the fuck? Who sent this? Who is this asshole? And just how many texts did they use? This thing just goes on and on and on.

AT SOME POINT YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO ACKNOWLEDGE THAT YOUR LIFE IS AN UTTER FAILURE, SO YOU MIGHT AS WELL JUST ADMIT IT NOW. PLAYING HOUSE IN YOUR CHEAP CAFE WON’T EVER COME CLOSE TO WHAT YOU WANT, SO WHY ARE YOU STILL PRETENDING IT DOES? YOU WEREN’T RAISED BY SOME CLUELESS MIDDLE-CLASS FAMILY THAT PUT UP LACE-DECORATED PILLOWS SAYING “HOME IS WHERE THE BLOODPUSHER IS” ON EVERY AVAILABLE SURFACE. THE BLOOD THAT RUNS THROUGH YOUR VEINS BELONGS TO THE MIDNIGHT CREW. TAKE A BREAK FROM PASSIONATELY CARESSING YOUR NOOK LONG ENOUGH TO CONSIDER WHAT THAT ACTUALLY MEANS. THIS TV DOMESTIC BULLSHIT IS GOING TO KILL YOU SLOWLY.

This is the most insufferably obnoxious person you have ever witnessed. They also know a terrifying amount about you. The obvious explanation rears its ugly head. Do you really sound like this? This is what you thought you sounded like when you were a kid. Grow up, asshole.

SO FUCK THAT AND THE MAGGOT-RIDDEN MUSCLEBEAST IT RODE IN ON, IT'S TIME FOR YOU TO START BEING THE PERSON YOU WERE MEANT TO BE. WOW HOW INSPIRATIONAL I THINK I'M GOING TO START VOMITING POMPOMS. EXCEPT THE VICTORY I'M EGGING YOU ON TO ISN'T SCORING THE MOST GOALS AND GETTING TO SLEEP WITH THE QUARTERBACK, IT'S HOLDING THIS ENTIRE CITY IN THE PALM OF YOUR HAND. THAT'S WHAT SLICK WANTED TO DO, REMEMBER? HE GOT CLOSE BUT HE LEFT IT UP TO YOU TO FINISH THE JOB, AND YOU RAN AWAY.

That's not what happened. He was killed. The entire crew was killed. You only managed to get away because you were lucky, and at that point you were practically an orphan. You couldn't have done anything else. Could you?

Or are you just a coward?

I MEAN WHAT ELSE WOULD ANYONE EXPECT FROM A COLOSSAL THUMBSUCKING COWARD LIKE YOU-

Great.

BUT THE THING IS THAT SLICK EXPECTED MORE. HE ALWAYS MEANT FOR YOU TO LEAD THE GANG WHEN HE COULDN'T ANYMORE. THAT DAY JUST CAME SOONER THAN HE EXPECTED. THOUGH I GUESS YOU MADE UP FOR IT BY DOING FUCKALL FOR FOUR YEARS. WELL, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.

This is insane. Not just because you're reading a message from yourself. Does this future you not know you've thought about starting up again more times than you could count? It's not possible. If you head back onto the streets, they will eat you alive.

THIS IS GONNA BE A LITTLE TRICKY THOUGH SO I'M GOING TO GIVE YOU A PLACE TO START, WHICH ALSO SERENDIPITOUSLY SERVES AS A BONUS INCENTIVE. CONTACT THE HANDLE APOCALYPSEARISEN. SHE'S GOING TO BE THE FIRST MEMBER OF YOUR NEW GANG, BUT SHE'S ALSO ONE OF THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO CAN HELP YOU FIGURE OUT WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED THAT NIGHT. AND THAT'S THE OTHER REASON YOU'RE GOING TO GO THROUGH WITH THIS. THIS ISN'T JUST ABOUT FULFILLING SLICK'S LEGACY. IT'S ABOUT AVENGING HIM.

The message ends there.

You sit back for a moment and breathe deeply. As of about a minute ago, nothing in the universe makes sense anymore.

After the Mansion Run, as the press took to calling the Midnight Crew’s attack on the Felt, people started developing abilities. About ten percent of the population suddenly found they could accomplish impossible things with their minds alone. These people are known as PAIs: Psychically Active Individuals. Most pais are capable of little more than party tricks, but some can do much more. Sollux accidentally blew the roof off of his house when he was learning to control his power. You suppose it’s not out of the question that someone could be able to affect time, but why would they use it to send a message to you from yourself? Or – you try to quash the sudden, rising hope – could it be that in a few hours, you’ll discover such an ability in yourself? That might explain the sudden change of heart.

You spend the rest of the day in a daze, turning the words of the message over and over in your mind. Every thirty minutes or so you’ll reach for your phone, hesitate for a moment, and let your hand fall. How can you even be considering forming a gang? You spent the last four years doing everything you could to leave that world behind you. You’re finally starting to think you might be able to live a normal life, one where your biggest worry is running out of muffins, not dying violently and abruptly.

But future you, asshole though he may be, is right about one thing. It’s not enough.

When the clock chimes midnight, you realize you’ve wasted the whole day agonizing over the decision. By then the cafe is starting to fill up, and the red-and-black tiles shine harshly in the fluorescent light. You decide it can’t hurt to just get in contact with this ApocalypseArisen person. Besides, you’re drawn to the possibility of learning more about the Mansion Run, whether or not you actually go through with the rest of future-you’s insane plan.

You note the time. Twelve fifteen: less than an hour before you send the message, if the text’s timestamp is real. All right. Time to get this show on the road.

WE NEED TO TALK.


	3. Mobius

It’s after midnight, and Occam’s Cafe is bustling with activity. Most of the chairs have occupants, and a small crowd has gathered around the pool table in the corner. The cafe is filled with the sounds of low voices, glasses clinking, strikes of matches and cues. John is doing an expert job of staying on top of everything. His elbows shift slightly every now and then; you’re pretty sure he’s still playing with that hat behind the counter.

At 12:43 the door opens and the most terrifying person you have ever seen steps through it. Her eyes are outlined in black, and her lips have been colored a striking blood-red. Her outfit matches: a black dress that buttons down the center in a strange zigzag pattern, the edges of the fabric accented in the same red. She moves with inhuman precision. Occam’s Cafe is not a den of iniquity, but it’s hardly filled with naive innocents either. Almost everyone here could more than handle themselves in a fight. They grow a little quieter when they notice her. No one has any doubts, just from the sight of her, that she could leave them all curled up on the floor without taking a scratch.

You might be in over your head.

“One cup of chilled sake,” she requests when she reaches the counter. There is something oddly hollow about her voice.

John manages to just ask “Anything else with that?” and you feel inexplicably proud. “On the house,” he adds when she tries to pay, nodding in your direction. Then he pulls out his phone and starts messaging like he never said anything. Did you tell him to say that? It’s certainly gotten her attention. She walks toward you. Quick, think of some clever and vaguely badass way to introduce yourself.

“Hi again.” Idiot. You are the king of first impressions, it is you. Something about her is throwing you off. She reminds you of someone, or something.

She doesn’t seem to notice your complete ineptitude, though it’s hard to tell – her face has remained completely neutral since she first walked in. “The Mansion Run,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. “Tell me how you’re involved and everything you know. Fewest possible words.” She speaks quickly, but she doesn’t sound hurried. She doesn’t sound anything, really. She just talks. You start thinking up a response. Do you match her aggressiveness or try to de-escalate?

Suddenly, you realize where you remember her from. The words come out of your mouth before you can stop them.

“You were there, weren’t you?” you ask. “You were the girl.”

She barely flinches, but you can see the change in her eyes, and her arm twitches in a gesture you recognize as an automatic reach for a weapon. _So she’s not as much of a robot as she pretends_ , thinks a part of your mind that hasn’t spoken up in years. It sounds like Slick. _I can use that._ Adrenalin is bringing back instincts you’d thought you had lost. Along with them comes a new perspective on the situation. You sent her that intentionally cryptic message. You persuaded her to come here without any knowledge about what she was getting herself into. Now you’ve revealed something that she probably didn’t think anyone else knew. She still doesn’t know anything about you. Is it possible, you wonder, that she’s frightened?

She sets the cup down. “Who,” she says, more slowly, “are,” pausing again, “you.”

You’re tense, and defensive, and – you realize – in a position of power. It’s an old, old feeling. You haven’t even thought about the playing card in your back pocket for years, but now you pull it out as smoothly as if you’d practiced every one of those days. Surprising yourself, you grin at her: the growling smile Slick used to make when negotiating. “I’m the Midnight Crew,” you tell her.

In her hand, abruptly and with only a flicker of movement, is a gun. “Or, I, I was,” you add hurriedly. “This isn’t a trap, okay? Fucking _hell_ , put the gun away.” She remains still. Your heart is pounding and you do not want to die and you can’t remember the last time you felt this alive. You just stepped off of a precipice, and now it’s all or nothing.

“I said put the gun away, you trigger-fondling lunatic,” you snarl. “This can be a friendly conversation or you can face an absolute shitstorm of a barfight-” (it’s a cafe, but never mind, you’re on a roll here) “-and learn nothing at all. Now suck it up and learn to play nice.” Just for the hell of it, since you’ve got nothing to lose at this point anyway, you pick up her drink and take a sip. “You look sharp, but you’re a madcap imbecile if you think ‘Tell me everything and don’t waste my time’ will go over well.”

Slowly, as every vein in your body thrums so loudly people out on the street must be able to hear it, she tucks the gun away. “It usually doesn’t,” she admits. She meets your gaze again with something that almost looks like respect. “Every group I’ve found has refused to answer any of my questions and responded only with hostility.” She shrugs. “Then I end up having to kill them all.”

“Yeah, well.” You try to swallow as subtly as you can, tucking the card back into your pocket. “Probably not great to throw away all your leads like that. Let’s try to avoid that here.” You’re somewhat surprised that she’s decided to talk with you after your little show of aggression, but apparently she might be thinking the same thing about you. “What are you even pursuing, anyway?”

“Same as you. Revenge.”

You’re not sure how to respond. Is that why you’re doing this? If it isn’t, what explanation can you give her?

She interprets your hesitation differently. “Oh, I was never on the Felt’s side,” she explains. “They stole me when I was a baby and kept me locked up in their mansion.” She delivers this information tonelessly. “I was raised by them to be a weapon. They made it clear I had no freedom. I was… uncooperative.” You’re not sure, but you think you detect just the slightest hint of a smirk. “The only thing I let them do was train me, so that one day I’d be able to murder them. Then the Midnight Crew attacked, and I just…” She pauses, fighting to keep control over her voice. “I ran. I wanted to stay and fight. Maybe even join the Crew against them. But the explosion gave me an opportunity to run away and I took it. After that, the Felt disappeared. So here I am, four years and thirteen days later, searching for them so I can finally exact justice for what they did to me.”

You shake your head. “The Felt died. _Everyone_ died.”

“You didn’t. You survived, and now you’re here, telling me the Midnight Crew lives on. At least one of them did, too. I know for a fact the Felt has been operating behind the scenes. But every time I try to follow a trail to them, it leads only to death. I haven’t been able to get any valuable information since at least a year ago.”

“With an attitude like that it’s no wonder you keep ending up with corpse parties. You’ve got the whole violence thing under wraps, but gangs are at least as much about politics.” Now you’re talking to her about Midnight City’s underworld like you’re dispensing romantic advice. “Everyone has a stick the size of a telephone pole up their shithole about power dynamics and inane rituals. You can’t just charge in and expect them to give you what you want.”

“I am aware,” she says coolly. “It does not come as naturally to me as it apparently comes to you.” She tilts her head, studying you for a moment. “Maybe we can help each other.”

Without really understanding why, you know that this is the moment that everything has been leading up to. The last four years have been an interlude, a reprieve. It’s time to insert the next disc. You clear your throat. “How, exactly?”

“Violence and politics,” she echoes back. “Fields in which our strengths and weaknesses complement each other. Besides, the Midnight Crew once ruled this city. Your name would earn us a measure of respect. ”

_This is insane_ , you think again, but the voice no longer sounds like your own. It sounds like the Karkat who thought he could actually be happy running a cafe, the Karkat who ran away instead of fighting. You’re done being that person. He’s a coward and also kind of a shitbrain. “Then let’s do it,” you say.

She smiles. It’s the first real expression you’ve seen on her face.

You decide it’s time to get better acquainted. “I’m Karkat Vantas.” You hold your hand out.

She stares it down and, after a moment, shakes it. “Aradia English.”

“But we can’t be the Midnight Crew,” you continue. It’s hard for you to say – harder than anything you’ve done in a long time – but it’s time to face the truth. “They’ve been gone for years. If we bring them back, people will think they lost their will. No respect earned there. So we need to be something new.”

“Mobius,” she says abruptly. “We will be Mobius.” It doesn’t sound like a suggestion. It sounds like a statement of fact.

“Mobius.” You try the word out. “That’s actually not a total disaster. It could work. Where’d you get it?”

She waves her phone. “I told myself.”

“Right, what you just said makes perfect sense and I understand all of it. Thank fuck the universe is so straightforward.”

“I send myself messages,” she explains. “From the future. Where to be, who to kill, so on. I have a format. ‘Mobius’ was filed under miscellaneous information in my most recent assignment.” So she’s a pai, and a powerful one from the sound of it. Which means-

“Is it possible you helped me send a message to myself?” you ask. “Or, I mean, will help. I think that might be how I got your messaging handle. Get. Um, here.” You hand her your phone, figuring it will probably be easier than trying to communicate your point without causing permanent harm to grammatical tenses.

She opens the message and presses a few buttons. “Yes,” she answers.

“So… should I write that now? It was sent from about this time.”

“No.” She hands your phone back. “I just forwarded it to you.”

She. Wait. Hang on.

“Hey guys!”

You are so wired on adrenalin that you come unspeakably close to punching the newcomer in the face, but you recognize in time that it’s just John. When did he get so good at sneaking up on you? “Hey, maggotbreath,” you greet him. He’s still holding that stupid hat. It’s gray and horribly battered. You turn back to Aradia to introduce her. “This is-”

Aradia English fires her gun directly into John’s head.

The noise sends the whole room diving for the ground, but you don’t notice the sudden chaos. All you can see is John Egbert, collapsing to the ground, a bright spray of red lining the wall behind him. You don’t want to look at what’s left of him. You don’t want to do anything. “What,” you say, which surprises you because you thought you were going to scream or break down crying. “No.” That’s a better word. You decide to stick with it. “No, no, no, no. No. Oh, fuck, no.”

Aradia has retrieved something off of his body (don’t look don’t look don’t look) and is holding it out to you. It’s his phone. Nothing makes sense. Your heart is breaking into a million very tiny pieces that shoot through the rest of your body and transfix every part of you. “Gray hat,” she says, as if that’s supposed to explain anything. Through blurred vision you can make out the text on the phone’s screen. It’s a text: one John sent just a few minutes ago.

she’s here.

“Spy,” she declares, and pulls out her own phone. How dare she, how dare she kill John and then say that he was the one that betrayed you, you want to rip her neck apart into shreds – but  _How serendipitous he showed up just after you started your cafe,_ whispers the part of you that speaks with Slick’s voice. And then, after a moment of consideration, it adds _Why did he ask if you were planning on having anyone over today? What was really in that letter?_ You add your own brain to the list of things you want to tear apart. Fucking traitor.

“We need to go,” Aradia announces. “Now.” She grips you by the arm and starts pulling you toward the door. This does not go over well with the patrons. A lot of very lethal-looking weapons are abruptly pointed in your direction. People shout at her to let you go; a few particularly bright ones tell her to put her hands over her head. She ignores them, and turns to face the door. “Get ready to drop,” she whispers to you. “In three… two… one…”

You drop to the floor.

The door explodes above you. Fragments of wood and glass go flying across the room. The customers, already on a hair trigger, start shooting over your head. “Oh _bollocks_ ,” curses a rough male voice coming from about where the door used to be. Someone else shouts “Jane!”

You’d like to take your time exploring the pros and cons of lying on the floor forever, but Aradia is dragging you away again – this time to the stairs. The cafe has transformed into complete chaos. Four intruders have entered through the new hole in your wall (you wonder, detachedly, how much a replacement for the door will cost) and are now apparently attacking everyone inside it. Only a few seconds have passed, but it’s instant slaughter. The woman in blue is shifting her hands in bizarre ways that cause tiny green cubes to appear out of nowhere in the paths of bullets. Another, who moves too fast for your eyes to follow, is slashing through the crowd with a katana. The remaining two lean against a wall. One holds his hands out, crackling with energy, to protect the other, who clutches at a bullet wound in her chest with a look of intense concentration.

“Get upstairs,” Aradia commands quietly. She has straightened up and is scanning the room. “I’ll handle this.” She silences your protests. “If I catch one I’ll let you do the interrogating, but right now you’ll just get in my way.” It stings, but she’s right. You could probably hold your own against them if they weren’t pais, but as it is they’re way out of your league. That in itself is bizarre. Pais are rare, and considered by most gangs to be unpredictable; you’ve never seen a group with more than two in it, let alone a team consisting entirely of them. You try not to think about where they come from, or why they’re attacking you. That way lies thoughts of John, and you really can’t afford to think of him at the moment. Right now, your only purpose is to stay alive.

You crawl up the stairs, keeping below the level of the bannister to stay out of sight. None of this is right. This is the old Karkat; the Karkat who ran away. You swallow your pride and pull open the door to your room. If they do come upstairs, they’ll have to enter through it, and if you’re lucky you might be able to pick them off one at a time. Unless the guy with the peculiar accent just blows open your wall, of course. What have you gotten yourself into? You turn and sit on your bed, trying to slow your breathing.

Next to you, sitting on the floor in a dusty corner, is an old and somewhat battered chest.

You haven’t opened it in years. Inside of it is Slick’s crowbar, the weapon he had on him during the Mansion Run. It was a symbol of pride for him. Several months earlier the Felt had attacked one of the Crew’s hideouts. Before Slick fought them off so thoroughly they barely escaped with their lives, he wrested the crowbar off of their leader. The next day he engraved it with a spades symbol, and from then on it was always his weapon of choice in anything Felt-related. You picked it up when you ran from the mansion. It’s the only thing you have left of the person you once thought of as a father. When you started Occam’s Cafe, you locked it away. You told yourself it was to keep it safe. The truth was that it was a relic of a past you, a you that no longer existed, and the time had come to bury it. You never made yourself any official promises, but since that day the chest has remained closed.

You reach out and run your fingers along the clasps. Dust flies off of them; you fight the urge to sneeze. The key is in your back pocket, right next to the playing card. You pull it out and turn it over in your hands. Inscribed into its handle are the words ‘The Basic Rules of Blackjack’, for reasons you were never able to figure out. It brings back memories you haven’t allowed yourself to think about for a long time. You close your eyes and welcome them.

Slowly, hands trembling, you open the chest.


End file.
